


when we aren’t bound by time

by cupcakeb



Category: Elite (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Carla is basically just annoyed with her standing in life, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/M, Lu is a sassy lady-in-waiting, Samuel is a good looking commoner who crashes Carla's masked ball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 18:53:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25570144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupcakeb/pseuds/cupcakeb
Summary: As it stands, masquerade balls are, unfortunately, a part of the sheer decadence that comes with being the heir to the Caleruega marquis title.And while eighteen may make her too old to be considered desirable by Dukes and Lords alike, tonight’s festivities ought to be a matchmaking success, if her father’s thinly veiled threats on ensuring she is married off and ready to appease the tense relations between their family and other aristocrats in the region are to be believed.OR: Carla is not prepared to meet a suitor she might actually like at the masquerade.
Relationships: Carla Rosón Caleruega/Samuel García Domínguez
Comments: 5
Kudos: 65





	when we aren’t bound by time

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Lia Ice's 'Love is Won'.

As it stands, masquerade balls are, unfortunately, a part of the sheer decadence that comes with being the heir to the Caleruega marquis title. 

Though perhaps not her favorite pastime, Carla certainly doesn’t mind the act of dressing up, of hiding behind masks adorned with chiseled art work so beautiful, she ought not to be worthy of it. She doesn’t mind, and yet tonight, as her lady-in-waiting helps her into the cream-colored ball gown her mother’s tailor had custom made for the occasion and curls her hair just right, she can’t help but wonder about the suitors she might encounter. 

And while eighteen may make her too old to be considered desirable by Dukes and Lords alike, tonight’s festivities ought to be a matchmaking success, if her father’s thinly veiled threats on ensuring she is married off and ready to appease the tense relations between their family and other aristocrats in the region are to be believed. 

The corset cuts into her ribs, and already she’s thinking about ways in which to ensure she will get to take it off again sooner rather than later. 

“Who might you think will attend tonight?” Lucrecia, her lady-in-waiting, asks by way of distracting her from the way she’s forced to pull the corset in tighter, ignoring the expression of gritted teeth currently making its way across Carla’s delicate features. 

Carla contemplates honesty; Lucrecia is the only confidant she’s got in these halls, the only companion her father will allow her to keep around before she has fulfilled her duty and found a groom. They’ve grown fond of one another in the months since she’d first been brought on for the post. 

“Well,” Carla considers, brushing out a wrinkle on the corset. “As long as they’re handsome enough to ensure I am given my due, I can’t say I mind much.” 

Lucrecia laughs, shaking her head as she gets to work on sewing in the overskirt of her dress. “One would hope someone vying for the hand of a Spanish grandee such as yourself would come equipped with certain skills in the... nether regions.” 

It is a comment as inappropriate as Carla has come to expect from her companion; perhaps she might even enjoy the brisk sense of humor the dark-haired girl is so well-versed in. Their laughter echoes in the room, the sound a welcome change from the usual sullen silence that has filled these halls for decades. 

The sly smile on her face is all but voluntary. 

“One would hope so indeed.” 

**

All of the suitors presented to her at the ball are undoubtedly meant to hold her attention. The titles they adorn themselves with, the battles they keep talking of — she’s sure it’s all meant to make her favor them. One even talks of dragons he slew — as though this is the Middle Ages, where such tales might be believed. Humorous tales such as these went out of fashion when the French Revolution ended, Carla is pretty sure. It does not speak for their agility to hear such preposterously false claims fall from their lips. 

But it is more of the same, a blur of identical laurels to rest on, stories they likely might share for the rest of their miserable, entitled lives. It is not what she desires, not in the least when she’s been so ruefully frustrated with her purpose in life over the past few months. 

With everyone disguised, it’s not difficult to use vanity when making her choice for her first dance partner of the night. He’s tall, and broad and talks of nothing but the upbringing he got to enjoy. It is not becoming, Carla thinks, to show off your riches in such a way. 

After all, she is quite wealthy herself. She will not be impressed by money. Marriage is not a means to an end for her — she is capable of financing her luxurious lifestyle all on her own. 

The ballroom dancing is as basic as can be, the steps well-rehearsed, no margin for error applied. He is the picture-perfect knight in shining armor, neck bows to her exactly as protocol dictates, and she’s sure he’s hiding an enthusiastic grin behind that mask.  
  
“Would you like to come to see my stables sometimes? We own the most impeccably bred Arabians in all of Spain,” he says after the song concludes, and she hides a laugh behind her mask. This is one of the only upsides to masquerade balls — they are convenient for masquerading emotions.  
  
“I would very much _not_ like that, but thank you ever so much for the dance,” she curtsies, even though she’s fairly certain she might outrank him somehow. It’s to soften the blow, if nothing else. She’s sure he must be crushed; someone of his stature is undoubtedly not used to rejection.  
  
Being vindictive is one of the simple pleasures in life; Carla won’t lie and pretend she does not enjoy the way he bows his shoulders, startled, as he moves away.  
  
It is on her way to the table of refreshments that she quite literally bumps into another man. God, these balls would be decidedly more fun with fewer men in the room. The smell of fragile male ego is practically palpable.  
  
His mask is black and simple, a drastic contrast to the elaborately painted masks adorning the faces of the other strangers milling around.  
  
He does not apologize for nearly throwing her off her balance. Perhaps this is what sparks her interest.  
  
“Watch yourself,” he says instead, his hand going out to steady her.  
  
She cannot remember the last time a stranger dared to touch her without a proper introduction and explicit acknowledgment from her side. After a night filled with monotonous protocol and routine, it is invigorating. It catches her off guard.  
  
“And who is it that I am watching out for,” she asks, when his hand stays firmly planted on her hip.  
  
His mask isn’t covering his mouth, so when he laughs, she sees a dazzling smile, a hint of mischief mixed in.  
  
“Wouldn’t you like to find out,” he trails off, then takes her hand in his. “Would you care to dance?”  
  
For the first time all night, Carla supposes the answer to that question may truly be yes.  
  
**  
  
She does not spend longer than appropriate out on the dance floor with the mysterious, witty stranger. Her father will be watching, will undoubtedly be asking her questions if she shows a preference for any of the men in attendance at all.  
  
Instead, she lets him kiss her hand at the end of their dance, and laughs at the sincerity in his voice when he says, “It was a pleasure, Carla.”  
  
He is not meant to address her by her given name, but she can’t say she minds. Before she can ask for his name, he speaks again. “Ask for me at Garcia tailors in town, the name is Samuel.”  
  
This only adds further to the intrigue. Is he working at the tailor shop? Does he own it? The forward way in which he offers up the information, as though it’s nothing to be ashamed of, makes her want to know more.  
  
She dances with a few more suitors, each more average and boring than the last, until she knows her parents will have turned in to their chambers for the night, then walks over to Samuel, pulling her mask down and off her face.  
  
“Come with me,” she says, then walks away and trusts he’s following her. She takes a shortcut through the kitchen, then a turn out into the garden, walking as fast as her heels will allow. When she looks back, he’s a few steps behind her, an amused smile on his face.  
  
When they get to the stables, she trusts there is no conceivable way any of her father’s lackeys could be watching them, so she reaches up and takes off his mask. He is every bit as beautiful as she imagined.  
  
Taking his hand, she moves towards a bed of hay and pulls him down, her shoulder brushing his in the process.  
  
“Tell me about you, Samuel,” she says, and he does.  
  
His father was a tradesman, married the daughter of his master at the tailor shop. A gruesome accident meant his mother had to raise him and his brother alone; she coped by teaching them the trade from a young age.  
  
It figures, then, that he’s put off by nobility. He’s never had to bother with the constraints of the class system in the way she has.  
  
"My brother detests the monarchy and its derivative nature," he says, his hand going out to play with her elaborate dress sleeve. He eyes it with interest, as though he's making note of each stitch, each ruffle of tulle.   
  
“If you ever need a new dress,” he says, “I could probably make one much nicer than the one you’re wearing.”  
  
She laughs at his forwardness. The way he will not be deterred by tradition and gallantry is amusing.  
  
“I quite like this dress,” she says and grins when he grabs at her sleeve, then runs a hand up her arm. “What’s wrong with it?”  
  
The way in which his eyes linger on her lips is exhilarating. The air in the stables feels electric.  
  
Carla is struck by the realization that perhaps it isn’t marriage she fears, it’s having to coexist with someone who can’t make her feel the way this simple tailor is by just looking at her.  
  
He doesn’t answer her question, and she doesn’t need him to. Instead, he leans over, puts a hand under her chin, then presses his lips to hers.  
  
She doesn’t sneak him up to her chambers, but she is tempted. When she walks back into the ballroom, most of the guests have dispersed. She sees Lucrecia in a corner, pouring herself a glass of wine.  
  
“Don’t you look ravished, dear,” she greets, plucks at the neckline of her dress when Carla is close enough to reach.  
  
Grabbing a glass for herself, she holds it out for the brunette to top up. “You have no idea,” she says, then links her arm through Lucrecia’s and grabs the bottle of wine.  
  
The madness of her life would be far too much to handle if she didn’t have such a capable companion right by her side; if it wasn’t frowned upon, she’d suggest Lucrecia as a suitable candidate for her hand in marriage.  
  
**  
  
A debrief of the night’s activities is taken at breakfast in the morning. Carla is a little too tired to fake enthusiasm; the wine from last night is giving her a headache.  
  
“What of the honorable Mr. Nunier? His father told me he was quite smitten with your… personality,” her father says, and Carla fights the temptation to show him a little bit of that _personality_. She will not be shamed for having preferences.  
  
Her cup of tea is shaking just slightly with anger she is trying not to show. “He was drab, father, why would I voluntarily choose a life of boredom for myself?”  
  
This makes her father raise his voice, waving his hand around scoldingly. “If you tell every man who angers you what your opinion of him is then--"  
  
"Oh, I didn't tell him my opinion of him," she says, and Lucrecia snorts in her seat across the room. “Perhaps you can arrange for him to join us for dinner later this week so I can share my thoughts.”  
  
Of course, her mother reaches over to calm her father down. Between the two of them, she is obviously in charge, the matriarch Carla aspires to be, if she is ever forced into having a family of her own.  


"You may not have as many choices for marriage as you'd like," her mother interjects. "Be more careful."  
  
The scathing comment she is thinking of may not be an appropriate reply, so she bites her tongue. “I am aware.”  
  
She is aware, it’s just that she thinks she sees marriage and love fundamentally differently than her mother does. It's not that marriage sounds bad, but she does not want the kind of marriage that her parents have. A partnership with someone she's fond of, with someone who sparks her interest — that’s what she’s looking for. Real companionship, adventure, someone to liven up the horribly boring reality of life in nobility circles.  


But she knows that wasn't how her parents' marriage began. And she knows it’s likely not how her own will begin, either. Practicality is of utmost concern to her parents when finding a suitable husband for her.  
  
Her mother attempts in vain to get her to see the positives. “Was there no one who piqued your interest last night, then?”  
  
Carla considers this carefully. There is no conceivable way she would be able to get away with dropping the name of the suitor she’d felt most drawn to, not if she wants to keep alive the sliver of hope that she may get to see him again.  
  
She shakes her head, feigning disinterest. “Not particularly.”  
  
Across the room, Lucrecia gives her a knowing look.  
  
The secrecy of it all is invigorating.  
  
**  
  
Lucrecia is the one who sneaks out of the premises at night to pass along her letter. Carla sits idly by as she awaits her return.  
  
When she does, the girl looks mischievous. “I do love when you involve me in these cunning plans,” she whispers, likely just for the theatrics. There’s no one else taking up residence in this wing of the house who might overhear.  
  
Carla grins at her, the room dimly lit by a single candle on her nightstand, and sits back against the pillows of her bed.“What did he say?”  
  
“He would be honored to make your unmasked acquaintance,” the girl says, and sits down next to her for good measure. Carla has to bite back a giggle of her own when she hears Lucrecia delight in this. “He was surprised to say the least.”  
  
And this, perhaps, is why Carla is seeking him out. The way he caught her off guard, surprised her at the ball, by unceremoniously approaching her. It makes her suspect life with him might not be as mundane as the alternative options she’s been presented with.  
  
She purposefully dresses in plain clothes for their next meeting, wears a pair of riding pants and foregoes her usual skirt on top. It is as though she’s testing him, so she insists to Lucrecia she does not want her hair to be elaborately braided, and instead has her braid it loosely down her back.  
  
Simple. Ordinary. Perhaps everything her parents have raised her to believe she isn’t; that’s how she wants him to see her.   
  
His horse is outside when she walks up to the stables, a beautiful chestnut mare, and she pets her gently as she makes her way inside.  
  
He walks outside, then takes her hands in his and smiles at her. The look on his face is curious, eager, boyish in a way far too youthful for his true age.  
  
In greeting, he asks, “What makes you think an accomplished tailor like myself would be willing to spend time with someone as aimless as yourself?”  
  
She decides right then and there that she enjoys his inquisitive nature, his sharp-tongued wit.  
  
“Well, you’re here, aren’t you,” she replies, takes a step closer to him and kisses him as they move into the stables.  
  
He stays with her for most of the night, and what she may lose in sleep, she gains in perspective.  
  
Back in her chambers early in the morning, Lucrecia looks scandalized when she finds Carla in the same robes she saw her leave for her rendezvous in the night before.  
  
“An absolute harlot, you are,” she grins, then gets to work in picking out a proper dress for Carla to wear to breakfast.  
  
She thinks, coming from Lucrecia, that might be a compliment.  
  
**  
  
The Most Honorable (a title she detests) Carla Rosón Carleruega has gotten a number of proposals in her life, and not one has made her even consider wanting to get married.  


Samuel Garcia Dominguez’ is no different.  
  
He is the first commoner to attempt to win her hand in marriage. That is an unfortunate detail she is trying not to linger on; possibly one of the reasons she is tempted to laugh when he approaches her with the proposal.  
  
Perhaps the bigger reason is her disdain for the institution of marriage, the deeply ingrained political nature of publicizing her affection for a potential suitor.  
  
Carla does not care if she never marries — so that’s what she tells Samuel when he gets down on one knee in the dark of the night, looking at her in awe as she sits back against a bale of hay in the stables where their clandestine meetings tend to be taking place.  
  
It is as though she were dressed for another masked ball, if the expression on his face is to be trusted. He is always giving her such looks, looking at her as if he has never once in his life seen anyone quite as beautiful as her.  
  
He's not her second proposal, nor her third, but he's the first that her parents won’t ever know about, and by far the most tempting.  
  
Samuel doesn't really feel like a prospect for marriage. He has a small house of his own in town, the same one he runs the tailor shop out of, with a garden and a flock of geese in the pond, and Carla likes him well enough. They see each other in passing, when they're both out riding, and sometimes in town, when she tags along with Lucrecia to the market. Sometimes they meet up at night, in the abandoned stables behind the guest house, like tonight. She likes him well enough, in a way, so his proposal is a disappointment.  


She tells him that first.  
  
“I’m not sure I follow,” he says, and his forehead creases in the adorable way she’s grown fond of. “You like me too much to consider marriage?”  
  
Carla rolls her eyes. Perhaps if the line of his cheekbones wasn’t as chiseled, if his eyes weren’t dark enough for her to drown in, she would be opposed to him on the sheer basis of the naivety he likes to put on display. She moves towards him, and he pulls her into his lap as if acting on instinct. After several weeks of being with him like this, it might as well be.  
  
“I do not believe in the institution of marriage. If we are happy together, why would a ceremony involving the people I detest most in this world be necessary to prove it?”  
  
"So what's the disappointment you speak of?"  


"I like you," she says, simply. "I'd rather you didn't turn into another lover put off by my disdain for formal unions used for political gain.”  
  
His following laugh is genuine, which is another trait she admires about him. He is only ever completely himself, no pretenses. “Have there been many?”  
  
She feigns offense, pushes at his chest. “Are you calling me promiscuous?”  
  
The sincere way he pushes her hair out of her face and touches his forehead to hers is enough to make her reconsider her feelings on the redundancy of the institution of marriage.  
  
“I’m calling you irresistible.”  
  
And she has to kiss him then because her heart might burst if she didn't.  
  
"If I did marry anyone, it would have to be you,” she says, perhaps a bit teasingly to hide that she really does mean it. He regards her doubtfully, then laughs.  


"Your consideration flatters me, my lady.”  
  
Good, she thinks. He should be flattered. Her consideration is a highly valued currency that only a handful of people may trade in.  
  
He takes her hand in his, then smiles at her again.  
  
It feels grander than being a grandee; being with him like this. It might be enough for her to want to give it all up. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me [on tumblr](http://cupcakeb.tumblr.com/)


End file.
